If It Never Ends then When Do We Start
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Caitlin] Looking up at him Caitlin wonders how long they'll be able to keep this going; Barry gone on a mission, she back to the lab ignoring Jay's advances, both of them under the scrutiny of the agency they work for. How long before her heart gets broken?


**author's notes:** Written for **Snowbarry Week 2016** , Day 7: spies. A 00Q au. There's a bit of _Skyfall_ and _Spectre_ in this, maybe a bit of _Die Another Day_ if you squint. Title taken from _Sweetest Goodbye_ by Maroon 5.

 **(!)** for explicit content

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 **& IF IT NEVER ENDS THEN WHEN DO WE START**

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 _1300 hours_.

Her footsteps come hurried against the pink-tinted bricks.

Located on the eastern border of the Arts and Industries Building of the Smithsonian, the Ripley Garden is home –among many other plants- to the Euonymus, or spindle tree, mostly native to East Asia.

She often visits the gardens in her off time, the unusual curvilinear design combined with a rich profusion of flowers creating a distinct sense of home. Something, she felt, her own apartment lacked since her move to DC.

She'd considered keeping a plant or two, but so far the only ones that survived were a small collection of cacti; the curse of being a workaholic.

Quickly, while time works against her, she winds down to the fountain, a small but bright courtyard with a few benches for visitors. Her asset's already waiting for her, a tall streak of a man sat back on one of the benches reading a newspaper—tailored gray suit, gleaming Oxfords.

A furtive smile sneaks to a corner of her mouth. Caitlin sits down next to the man, placing the reinforced briefcase she'd been handed this morning on her lap, and schools her expression.

"Beautiful day for a walk," she says.

"I'm more of a runner myself," the man replies, folding his newspaper neatly in two before discarding it next to him.

He looks at her, a twinkle in his eye. " _Q_."

"003," she acknowledges, the standard cue-and-response protocol in public engagements. Of course, she knows him better by his real name. Barry Allen.

A swift once-over of their immediate surroundings assures her they're not being watched, and after Barry does the same, the conversation can precede a little more casually.

"You're not who I was expecting," Barry says, keeping his eyes trained on any passersby, any potential spies, or any potential threats.

"Cisco was needed elsewhere," she offers as explanation, and opens both combination locks on the attaché case. Reaching inside she takes out a thick padded envelope, and hands it to Barry.

He quickly rifles through the documents inside with nimble fingers.

"Plane ticket to Shanghai," she says. "Documentation and passport."

Barry glances at her sideways, eyes skipping briefly to her lips, throwing her off. Her cheeks heat up. He shouldn't do that when they're out in public; who knows who might be listening?

"And my toys?" Barry asks.

She draws in a deep breath, and sidles a small black box Barry's way—he peeks inside, a small gun embedded in dark foam.

"A Walther PPK/S 9mm short," she says. "There are micro-dermal sensors in the grip coded to your palm print, so you're the only one who can fire it."

One of Ronnie's inventions; he'd joked it was less of a random killing machine and more of a personal statement—she thought it an elegant little thing, even if her experience with guns didn't extend outside of the test shots she fired at the lab.

She'd never been much for guns, but she understood the need for them, as well as the men and women she worked with who pulled the triggers.

"You're not going to say it?"

She blinks. "Say what?"

Barry gives her a look, somewhere between puppy eyes begging to hear words Felicity has repeated on end, and amusement at the thought of hearing her say them for a change.

She smiles fondly. "I don't think I need to remind you to return the equipment in one piece."

"Who am I?" Barry quips. "007?"

Caitlin rolls her eyes, but there's no real heat behind it; everyone in Q-division feared siphoning their creations to Felicity and her double-oh, Oliver Queen—he rarely returned all the pieces, a thing of much amusement among the other 00s. Still, she considers it a good thing she specializes in biochemical weapons and aids for the agents; there isn't much breaking anyone can do.

Barry slips the sleek black box in between the pages of his newspaper, the envelope inside his jacket, and throws an arm back, draped over the back of the bench.

"So this is why you were in such a hurry this morning."

Her shoulders relax, and she sits back, not close enough to be nestled in the crook of his body, but still close enough for people to ask questions. With the exchange now over they could be any two people—a boy and a girl out on their first date, strangers who happened to meet in the gardens. Lovers, like they'd been last night, her fingers mapping star charts over Barry's chest, Barry's tongue begging a bigger high still.

"I didn't know until I got to work."

Barry's fingers brush her shoulder in the briefest touch. "You'll have to make it up to me."

She means to pull closer, but knows she can't, so she settles for drowning in Barry's gentle green eyes. "You're flying to Shanghai."

"I could convince Dr Wells I need you in the field with me."

"You will do no such thing," she gasps, her eyes wide, not at all surprised to see a smile break out over Barry's face.

"You'll fly to Shanghai," she says, her fingers itching to run along the lapels of his well-tailored suit. "Do whatever it is you need to do, and come right back to me."

Barry chuckles. "Yes, ma'am."

Far too soon, a common occurrence for them, their time together is up—Barry has to leave on his mission, and she has her own double-oh to brief an hour from now; she still has to pack the neurotoxins and antidotes before she can hand them over to Iris.

Barry stands up and buttons up his jacket, grabbing his belongings.

He doesn't kiss her goodbye.

Looking up at him she wonders, not for the first time, how long they'll be able to keep this going. Barry gone on a mission, she back at the lab ignoring 006's advances, both of them under the scrutiny of the agency they work for. How long before her heart gets broken?

"Can you keep a secret?" Barry asks.

Her heart warms around the familiar phrase, running through their short time together like a single red thread.

"You know I can."

.

.

 **seven months earlier**

.

Q-division, so named after a logistics branch of the U.S. Army, specialized in research and development for a special taskforce within the CIA.

Each Q, or quartermaster, had their own specific skillset, be it mechanical or structural engineering, quantum mechanics, computer security, or, in her case, biological and chemical engineering.

To the outside world she was an ordinary girl who worked for the Smithsonian, the Museum Conservation Institute a decent cover for someone with her degrees. Unofficially and unbeknownst to her friends and family, the CIA recruited her straight out of college, her unique skills and certain aptitude tests placing her on a very short list of candidates suited for a unique position.

She'd jumped at the opportunity to serve her country.

Her grandfather had fought overseas, and met her grandmother after getting sent home with an injury to his leg; even as a child she knew the story served as a love story, about two people finding each other in the chaos of a war not their own—but even then, as a little girl too smart for her age, she'd understood the call of duty.

Leading Q-division was Doctor Harrison Wells, a once widely published quantum mechanic who'd dropped off the radar some years ago. Now she knew why.

"You understand what it is we do here," he says during her final interview to fill the coveted last slot in the division.

She'd been briefed on the finer points of what the taskforce did several times now, and her resolve hadn't faltered; she wanted the job, and eerie words like 'counter-terrorism' weren't going to scare her off.

"You supply field agents with the logistic means to complete their missions."

"That's very—" Dr Wells searches for the word, "—politically correct."

She releases a breath.

For a moment she feared he'd say _reductive_ , that her chances were blown and she'd never get a chance to prove herself. She wasn't squeamish or apprehensive about this; she knew she would be asked to create chemical compounds or biological agents that might end up killing people, and maybe it was cold to think of herself as never directly responsible, but she understood the job requirements.

"All due respect, sir"—she scoots to the edge of her chair—"will I be asked to kill?"

"Never."

"Will I be asked to interrogate terrorists?"

Dr Wells' eyes narrow with curiosity. "No."

"I'll be on the cutting edge of science."

With one nod, Dr Wells signals her message came across. "You'll never be able to publish. You'll be on the cutting edge of science and no one will ever know."

"I'll know."

"Fair enough." Dr Wells grants her an uncharacteristic smile, and closes her personnel file; it specified things like 'dead father' and 'estranged mother', but that hadn't stopped her at any point in her life. Why would it stop her now?

Then, Dr Wells stands, extending his right hand. "Welcome to Q-division, Dr Snow."

It takes her a lot of strength to merely stand up and shake Dr Wells' hand, rather than jump up and throw her arms in the air. Never in a million years had she envisioned this type of career choice for herself –career day at school never quite covered intelligence agencies- but she won't let the opportunity slip past.

Dr Wells leads her downstairs, to an enormous basement he affectionately calls the Bunker—with glass walls surrounding each room the Bunker looks like one giant space, each section on full display as they weave through the labs via a central corridor.

They push into a room where one man's hunched over a microscope, blindly making notations on the notepad to his left.

Dr Wells clears his throat.

The man –gray hair, glasses, a bit of a disheveled professor thing going on– looks up.

"Harrison!" he shouts, and stumbles over, "You would not believe what Jefferson tried to pawn off today. _X-ray_ shades? I age five years each time that young man speaks."

"I've seen the design." Dr Wells crosses his arms over his chest. "It looks very promising."

The man's shoulders slump, and he looks as if he's been slapped in the face. He seems vaguely familiar to her, and she wonders if he's another renowned scientist who'd dropped off the face of the Earth to join the CIA.

"That's not why I'm here," Dr Wells says, and gestures at her. "This is Caitlin Snow. She's joining the team. Caitlin, this is Professor Martin Stein. My right-hand man."

Professor Stein's eyes go wide. " _You_ are our latest recruit?" he laments. "This must be some sort of practical joke."

" _Martin_ ," Dr Wells warns, while she hopes her pursed lips and wide eyes don't make her look too prim, and blatantly asks, "Because I'm a woman?"

"Because, my dear, you are _a girl_ ," Professor Stein says, wildly throwing up his arms, as he addresses Dr Wells again. "I realize you don't have to explain your hiring decisions to me, Harrison, but I keep telling you, youth is no guarantee of innovation!"

"Nor is age a guarantee of efficiency, old friend," Dr Wells assures. "Dr Snow is our new biochemical engineer. Top of her class at Johns Hopkins. We're very lucky to have her."

Professor Stein waves a dismissive hand, and sits down behind his microscope again, mumbling to himself.

"I wish I could say he'll warm up to you," a woman's voice sounds behind her—she turns and finds a beautiful blonde with thickly framed glasses lingering in the doorway, a tablet clutched between her hands. "But that's pretty much as good at it gets."

"Caitlin Snow," Dr Wells says. "Meet Felicity Smoak, our cyber security expert."

Felicity looks at Dr Wells tightly. "Overwatch."

"No," Dr Wells says.

"But—"

"No."

"If I could just—"

Dr Wells inches a step forward, making Felicity swallow hard. "You're a Q, like everyone else. That's how it works."

"Sure thing, boss man, sir." Felicity nods, then takes note of her again. Her face lights up with a smile. "Welcome to the team."

.

The team, the entirety of Q-division, consisted of a haphazard bunch of scientists specialized in a wide variety of disciplines.

Professor Stein, along with Dr Tina McGee seemed to have been with Q-division the longest, and had a say in every project the team worked on.

Ronnie Raymond was the team's chief mechanical engineer, often assisted by Jefferson 'Jax' Jackson, a brilliant mechanic who couldn't be much younger than her. There was Rip Hunter, an expert analyst who helped out wherever he was needed, also guiding the assets in the field from the Cortex, the central communications hub underneath the Bunker.

Closing their ranks were Hartley Rathaway and Cisco Ramon, two master engineers who were as different as night and day—most days the two could be found arguing and disagreeing over the smallest thing, and the only one who could ever come between them was Dr Wells.

.

Some Qs, she quickly learns, had the privilege of being assigned a double-oh, one of the nine agents working for the taskforce, each most often referred to by their codename. Each scientist knows each agent by name, but the Agency lived and died by its protocols, and to maintain an air of professionalism, strict rules were set up on how to interact.

It becomes second nature to refer to the Kevlar reinforced suits as 008's, the heavily modified cars as 006's most coveted type of toys, and the poisons she cooked up in the lab generally went to 009, who preferred the subtlety of a chemical agent over the loud ruckus of a gun.

Two weeks into her employment she's assigned 009, Iris West, a fresh-faced double-oh in desperate need of a new Q after her predecessor chose to leave his post.

"Hewitt was an ass," Iris says, no holds barred, taking a careful sip from her coffee.

For some reason, their preferred places to meet have become coffee houses or lunch bars in the area, somewhere two young professional women like themselves could blend in.

"He didn't work well with others, so he left."

"Can we do that?" she asks, one hand folded around a small brown box. "Leave?"

"Of course." Iris smiles. "The Agency doesn't own us."

She thinks on that a moment, about the two polygraphs she had to take before and after she landed this job, the level of personal detail she had to provide in her file, and the courses on personal security she had to take. For a while it seemed each stranger on the street had it out for her, and that'd merely been self-induced paranoia.

Iris sits up excitedly. "What do you have for me?"

Startled from her darker thoughts, Caitlin slides the brown box towards Iris.

"Black tea, laced with digitalis."

Iris' target was a wealthy mogul obsessed with private security. No one came near his house without being properly vetted, and even then the man had been known to make his guests a head shorter. If Iris wanted a way in, she needed to be smart about it. Luckily for the Agency, there were a few strategic weaknesses they could exploit; groceries were delivered to the house from the same company every week, and the target, a lone man, carried a pacemaker to regulate his heart rhythm.

"Don't you just love a man who picks his own poison?"

"A few hours after ingestion the digitalis will cause a heart arrhythmia—"

Iris beams. "Giving me a way in."

With his pacemaker seemingly malfunctioning, a private hospital will be called in to check the device—that's how Iris, armed with the right credentials, would find her way in.

That night, she lies awake for hours thinking about her briefing, like she'd gotten in the habit of doing. Had she been clear enough? Was she sure about the dose of digitalis in the tea? Would it be enough to cause concern? What if Iris got caught, or worse, killed, because she made a mistake?

She sits up in bed and grabs the phone Q-division supplied her with, contacting the Cortex over a secure line.

"Rip?" she says once the call connects. "It's Caitlin."

"No worries, good doctor." Rip catches the concern in her voice before she's well and good decided that's what's keeping her up. "009 checked in an hour ago. She's in."

The tension in her shoulders unknots.

"Brilliant trick, by the way, with the tea," Rip says. "Never trusting you with another cuppa, but brilliant."

She smiles. "Thanks, Rip."

"Not a problem. I'll keep you posted."

.

Her first big project, inventoried as Q-FC-52.A, scores high right out of the gate.

A tracking system using nanotechnology, it's meant to monitor the agents' whereabouts and vital signs live in the field. Professor Stein mumbles something about beginner's luck, while Dr Wells and Dr McGee sing her praises, and many of her colleagues utter their relief—other tracking devices and radios can be discovered by a quick pat down or metal detector; hers is an elegant and subtle method of keeping tabs on their often obstinate counterparts.

Because the project's her brainchild she's tasked with administering the nanites to each double-oh. She sees it as the opportune moment to put all the codenames to their proper faces.

001 and 002 both arrive precisely on schedule. She's been told Tommy Merlyn and Laurel Lance have completed so many successful missions together they often choose their own targets—both proficient at seduction, firearms, and extensive hand-to-hand combat, the two of them are suspected of having _a thing_ on the side. Whatever that may mean.

Iris skips to the front of the line since she's headed out on a mission, while 004 and 005, Sara Lance and Nyssa Al-Ghul will be returning tonight—it's going to be a long day, but luckily she has Cisco providing plenty of caffeine.

"Can you keep a secret?" comes a male voice sometime after lunch.

"Ex-" she starts, but she's turned around in the same breath and has come face to face with— _Well._

Caitlin's eyes travel down the length of the agent's body, neat blue cotton shirt tucked in black chinos, before they focus on his face again. Such a young face. Such a happy face. Such a _good_ face.

Good grief, has she been out of the game for that long?

She blinks, picking her jaw up off the floor. "-cuse me?"

The agent gives her a smile so brilliant it travels all the way down to her kneecaps.

 _Oh boy_.

He strides into the room, and sits down in the only other chair available, where 008, Ray Palmer, sat no half hour ago.

"I really don't like shots," the agent confesses, rolling up his left sleeve in the process.

She looks at him, wary of his words.

"Scout's honor."

Somehow, his honor does little to convince her. He's a trained spy, handy with knives and guns and whatnot, why would he be afraid of an injection?

"I'm afraid you'll have to suffer through"—She quickly checks her papers, most male agents already crossed off the list, except for 006, 007 and—"003."

She'd already had the pleasure of meeting Jay on another occasion, and she'd heard stories about Felicity's double-oh. No way this is him.

003 extends his right hand. "Barry."

She takes his hand, equal parts amused and apprehensive, but his hand comes soft to the touch, and warm compared to her constantly cold fingers.

"Cai-"

Wait, no.

Caitlin clears her throat. "Q," she says, sticking to proper protocol. Certain 00s around here have a reputation, and she won't fall victim to it. She won't be seduced by the first set of endless legs or emerald shiners. She's more professional than that.

It's not even like the taskforce lacked in good-looking agents; each double-oh that sat in this chair today had a certain _je ne sais quoi_ that no doubt in part landed them their job.

So why would she respond so differently to this double-oh?

"Alright," 003 nods, "Q," and there's that smile again, setting underneath her skin like an extra dermis. What's happening to her?

Shaking her head, she continues with the job at hand, fitting a 21gauge needle to a syringe. She sticks the needle into the ampule she prepared this morning and pulls out the required amount of liquid.

"It might help to close your eyes," she says, swabbing 003s arm with some disinfectant, and replaces the needle with a smaller one. "Think of a pretty girl."

It's advice she'd once heard given to her baby brother by one of his oncologists; Charlie had promptly squealed "EWW" and shaken his head, and the shot was over before he'd been able to register it.

003 catches her eyes. "Don't- have to close my eyes for that."

Heat shoots into her cheeks at the same time she breaks 003s skin with the needle, and it's all she can do to keep a straight face. She grabs a tissue and holds it over the site of the injection, and massages gently, dispersing the nanites in the liquid.

She's never felt more unprofessional in her life, blushing like a schoolgirl.

"What is this for, anyway?" 003 asks, and folds his arm.

Caitlin cocks an eyebrow. "You're letting me assault you with a needle without knowing what it's for?"

003 shrugs.

"Smart blood," she says, and walks over to her monitor, now coming to life with Barry's vital signs as the nanites swiftly spread through his bloodstream. "We'll be able to track you anywhere on the planet."

"Needs a better name," 003 says, standing next to her.

She rolls her eyes. Cisco told her the same thing; she expected nothing less from his double-oh.

"I didn't catch yours."

She looks up sideways, shook by his sudden and unexpected proximity. Boy, he moved fast. "Mine?"

003 leans in a little, speaking to her alone, silently begging entrance to her private space. "Your name," he says, while she notes the hints of green in his eyes that give way to blue.

It's been a long time since a man has talked to her like this, marked her so tightly with his gaze and words and physicality, longer still since she's let anyone close enough to make her feel much of anything.

That's no excuse though; the Agency asked for protocol and this job means too much to her to lose it over a man. With enough strength of will left and a deep breath, she manages, "I didn't tell you my name," and a formal step back.

"Ah." Barry feigns realization. "That's right."

She digs her hands into the pockets of her lab coat, and rights her shoulders.

Right on cue, 006 –Jay Garrick- knocks on the glass door, entering a moment later. "You got time for me, doc?"

"Of course." She brightens, and turns back to 003. "Have a nice day, _agent_."

"You too"—Barry smiles—" _Q_."

.

Besides their proficiency with weapons, plenty of double-ohs came with their own special reputation; that sort of James Bond sex-for-dinner, death-for-breakfast kind of thing, and she for one won't be tempted by any of it.

So whenever Barry comes in with all his swagger and not too subtly asks, "What's your name?" as an _apropos_ with that cocked grin of a smile, she refuses to indulge him.

She still glances over her shoulder and turns, because there's no harm in looking and little effort in being polite, and if she can't at least show him some courtesy what business does she have working in a team?

"Unlike you, 003," she says as formally as she can manage, "I know how to keep a secret."

Barry purses his lips, an action so distinctive she commits it to memory. "Our identities aren't a secret."

That's true; she's learned all her colleagues' names as surely as she has the agents', and knows far too many details of some of their personal lives. That's never meant she has to offer up the same. Her name might be the bare minimum, but the rules are the rules too. No names. No real identities. They're spies and people who provide for them, working for the Central Intelligence Agency—they lie to their friends and family about what they do, so who they are hardly matters down here in the Bunker.

Somewhere along that line of reasoning her logic doesn't hold up entirely, but it's how she justifies it. It's what she needs to face each day anew. She wishes more people respected that.

Her lips press together in a tight line, a little too rigid, even for her taste, but she can't understand what Barry could want from her. Is it that he means to get closer and seduce her? Or is he simply being friendly?

Barry seems to get the message though, as garbled as it may be, and backs out of her see-through lab with a short nod. "I like your dress," he throws over his shoulder, before disappearing out of earshot.

She shoots up straight in her chair, her eyes wide as they track Barry the length of the corridor. It isn't very collegial of Barry to remark on her dress, or anything she's wearing, even less professional than his usual unkempt disregard of protocol. Caitlin draws her fingers through the curls near her shoulder, trying to ignore the memory of the three dresses she'd lined up on the bed this morning and how she'd picked the most colorful one.

She's certain that hadn't been intentional.

She hadn't tried to draw anyone's attention with it.

"He's okay, you know," comes Iris' voice, from the same glass doorway Barry stood no five seconds before.

"Excuse me?" Caitlin asks, certain she hadn't asked for anyone else's opinion. Whatever Barry was playing at, it was something between her and him; not any of the other Qs, and definitely not any of the 00s.

But that's the trouble with working in a glass house.

"Barry." Iris crosses her arms over her chest. "He's a good guy."

"I don't see how that's relevant."

Caitlin turns back to her computer, though none of the keys she hits end up stringing together into anything coherent. However much she tries to ignore Iris' voice she fails, but Barry being a good man still doesn't take away from the fact that they work together, that there's an outspoken hierarchy here, and an entire rulebook they have to uphold.

This job means too much to her to throw away over a man.

"I know you don't let your guard down easily," Iris continues, unsolicited. "Which isn't a bad thing in this business."

What if she simply doesn't move? What if she sits as still as she possibly can and waits out this entire conversation? Will that drown out Iris' voice? Will that stop Iris from adding excuses to a list she started drafting the moment Barry walked into her life?

"But it's okay if you do it around him."

Because the thought starts a seed springing in her chest.

They could keep it a secret. They could pretend to live the same lives they're living now and no one would have to know.

Her mother would tell her to stay the course, follow the rules prescribed, but her life's become this blob of wearisome uniformity in near every aspect, and if there's one thing she'd like to avoid it's ending up as alone as Dr. Carla Snow-Tannhauser.

"We all need something to hold onto," Iris says, "and if it's someone we don't have to lie to— all the better."

Since her time here she's learned that outside of this building, outside of this Agency, when Iris sheds the job, she wears an engagement ring around her finger. Her fiancé, Eddie Thawne, is a homicide detective right here in DC who thinks she imports and exports antiques and travels the world in search of them.

Iris struggles with the lies more than she lets on.

Maybe that's why she lets her double-oh get away with it, the unprompted advice -maybe even push- in Barry's direction.

.

Working for the CIA isn't nearly as glamorous as television or spy novels make it out to be. She has to set her alarm clock like anyone else working a nine-to-five job, pack a lunch or get something in the cafeteria upstairs, and has to add plenty of overtime to her schedule when big projects are due.

Dr Wells suffers no fools and no slackers; being on the cutting edge of science meant keeping up to date with the latest studies and advances in medicine, new research and recent developments in every field they had experts in—even, on occasion, reading outside of their own fields to remain innovative.

That's why she's still at the office at eight o'clock, rifling through a thick dissertation on quantum mechanics, her desk lamp one of two sources of light in the entirety of the Bunker; clearly her colleagues had a much better grasp on how to divide their time.

"What's wrong?" sounds an all too familiar voice, and it's a testament to exactly how tired she is that she welcomes it.

Barry walks in cloaked in darkness, an astoundingly good look on him.

"You have scowly face," he says.

Okay. She'll give him that. She'd much rather be home taking a hot bath, reading a good book with a glass of red wine at her side. Anyone would be scowling at 500 pages worth of quantum field theory.

"Unless you know how to get through 300 pages in-" She sighs and checks her watch, the hour way past the time she'd allotted for her reading, "-half an hour, there's little that can change that."

Barry's eyes narrow. "Have you tried just turning off your computer?"

A fond smile curls around a corner of her mouth. "I'm afraid that's not how it works, 003," she says, and relaxes against the backrest of her chair.

"Please"—Barry grimaces, sinking into another chair near her desk—"call me Barry."

Tilting her head, she can't help but try and decipher Barry's thoughts. Why is this so important to him? It's just a name, and their names don't make them who they are.

"Why?"

"I don't know." Barry shrugs. "Someone should."

In that moment, sitting in the near dark, Barry starts shaping into a real person; no longer just a spy or someone who pretends for a living, but a man who needs his existence reaffirmed from time to time, before it blends into the camouflaged backdrop this job offers. He needs to hear his name to uphold an identity in this fast paced and changing world.

She gets that kind of need. Her cat doesn't call her 'Caitlin' either, after all.

A contented silence washes over them, but she doesn't return to her reading and Barry makes no move to leave.

What's his story, she wonders, what led him to the CIA's doorstep? Was he recruited like her? It's hard to imagine all the clichéd rumors that float around the office are true; _orphans make the best recruits_ , she'd overheard Professor Stein tell Dr McGee once, and it'd brought back vivid flashbacks of her own situation. Her mom may still be alive, but they haven't spoken since Charlie died.

As for Barry, it's a truth too confrontational to think about.

She watches him scrutinize every inch of her lab, from the mass spectrometer to the microscopes lined up against one wall, to the more personal items on the desk; an Easter Cactus, or Hatiora Gaertneri, and a few pictures of her and Charlie. She'd hesitated making her workspace too personal, but Charlie could hardly be missing.

"That your kid?" Barry asks, while his eyes not too subtly seek out a wedding ring.

"My brother." She averts her eyes. "Charlie."

"How old is he?"

Her skin crawls. It's never done her well to get too familiar at work; even after three years her brother's still a subject she prefers to keep to herself.

"Why are you here?"

Barry folds his hands around his neck, leaning far back in his chair. "Waiting for Cisco to fix my watch."

"Don't they have watchmakers for that?"

"Maybe for a watch that keeps time." Barry grins, while his voice lowers to a whisper, "I'm secretly hoping he's adding C-4."

Caitlin rolls her eyes.

"Yo, Barry!" Cisco's voice echoes into the depths of the Bunker, lacking any sort of protocol or propriety. So maybe she's the only one around here strictly adhering to the Agency's rules; she's also their latest recruit and still has a lot to prove, despite her first project being such a success. She can't afford any lapses in judgment.

Barry winks. "That's my _cue_."

She can't help it- she laughs at the pun, free of any apprehension.

What's happening to her?

"Hey," Barry calls, lingering in the doorway.

Caitlin looks up, at how the dark of the Bunker catches at Barry's cheekbones, giving him the haunting appearance of someone older, someone wiser, someone who might –in time- come to mean something more to her. But she can't allow for the complications that might bring; she's happy here, on the cutting edge of science. Life hasn't felt this stable in a long time.

"You should go home," Barry says. "Get some sleep."

"I will." She nods, averting her eyes again.

Even before Barry's tripped that step back into the unlit corridor, before she's certain she's all alone again, she vows to not let him get any closer than she's thus far let him.

She won't let a double-oh be her downfall.

Caitlin leaves her reading for what it is and heads home, where she settles on the couch in a fresh shirt and sweatpants, and a large glass of red wine. A hot bath can wait.

Mira, the three-year old Maine Coon meows and purrs, curling into her lap a tiny ball of fur.

Scrutinizing her apartment the way Barry had her desk earlier, she's curious if anyone would consider her life empty. The few boxes left unpacked mostly held books, her fondest memories littered in pictures over the cupboards, a framed collage she hoped to finish in the coming weeks, and anything else she owned allotted its own place. The apartment still didn't feel like hers, hadn't been celebrated with a housewarming party—but who would she invite anyway?

For as long as she can remember she never had a great many friends, instead focused on doing well in school and chasing her ambitions, taking care of her dad and then her brother after they got sick. When they both died a mere three years apart that'd barely slowed her down.

She's not unhappy, or sad, or desperately trying to hold onto memories of the past. This is simply what her life looked like right at this moment. Sure, a partner would be nice, but starting a relationship with a man she works with, a spy no less, is a sure recipe for disaster.

Still, she misses the sound of her own name, too.

.

"You know," comes Barry's voice that Tuesday morning, and it leaves her so affected heat traipses up the back of her neck, "some day we might end up in a situation where it is imperative that I know your name."

Caitlin slips another slide under the microscope, adjusts the lens, and tries her best not to imagine Barry standing in her door, legs crossed at the ankles making him look all tall and lanky, arms crossed over his chest, his emerald eyes tracking her every move. She'd determined to remain as professional as she possibly could from now on.

"Do you really want to take the chance that I get caught in a lie?"

"If or when that completely hypothetical situation happens I'm sure you'll manage without it," she replies without so much as glancing up from her microscope.

Barry's a spy after all; he has to lie if he expects a paycheck at the end of every month. He'll manage without her name. Besides, she's only left the lab for quick in-the-field debriefings with Iris so far, and while Iris knows her name, she got that information elsewhere. There's no real reason for Barry to learn her name other than to sate his own curiosity. Why can't he ask Cisco or Felicity if he's that eager?

"Q isn't a name," Barry says. "It's your job title."

"Yes, it is, _agent_ ," she says, laying it on thick. "And it's a job I really like."

"You're a real stickler for that kind of stuff, huh?" Barry asks. "Protocol?"

At that, she looks up and stares blankly ahead, rolling her shoulders as Barry's words sink in. Is that how people perceived her around here?

She abhors being thought of as stiff and overly proper, or cold, and that somehow being synonymous with her never having room in her life for any fun. She has _fun_. She likes going out with friends for drinks, and she loves trying new places to eat—but she moved to DC only a few months ago and she's working in an underground lab surrounded by spies. Even if all her colleagues weren't all natural workaholics like her, the CIA isn't the easiest environment to make friends.

Even still, despite that abhorrence she can't help how she is. She likes things where and how they are, everything in its proper place, so that the maze in her head might become more manageable, especially in moments of stress.

"It's not a crime to like things neat and organized," she says, and turns around in her chair, making sure her face communicates exactly what she's aiming for—insult, injury, and a big question mark around Barry's ability to read her in any way.

Within two seconds Barry humbles in front of her, his head inclining, hands sliding into the pockets of his pants, avoiding direct eye contact. At least there's that. At least he's still somewhat of a gentleman.

"And outside of the lab?" Barry asks. "What does a Q do for fun?"

Caitlin draws in a deep breath, tapping her fingers at the white tabletop of her desk. It's clear Barry hadn't meant to insult her, so she won't be any more intractable than she has to be; he's here for his same old flirting all in the quest of learning her name. She'd think it cute, if she weren't trying so hard to avoid seeing Barry that way.

"I cook," she says, "and I eat, and I read."

"And you work..." Barry teases.

Caitlin scowls.

She knows she's not her job, but she's not her name either—if her need to hear it ever starts outweighing the space she's demanded to unfold here she'll go out to a nice bar, or join a dating website, or something of the sort. She won't start looking for that affirmation inside the Agency. Right at this moment she's not holding out for love, or a fling, or anything of the sort.

"Hey, I'm not doing any better." Barry laughs, raising his hands in surrender.

It's annoyingly endearing.

"My social life consists of pretending I'm someone else, and Netflix."

A master spy who spends his free time watching Netflix?

She raises a suspicious eyebrow.

It doesn't matter to her what Barry does in his spare time, or on his missions, or anything else that could involve any type of small talk. Him telling her all this is a trick; he's trying to establish rapport and gain her trust so that she'll feel comfortable telling him her name. Or worse, say 'yes' to him should he ask her out.

She won't have any of that.

"He was six," she says as her eyes fall to a picture of Charlie. She aims to put up a barrier between her and Barry she's in desperate need of—Barry chips at her resolve too easily, with every smile, with every compliment, with every completely honest thing that falls from his lips.

"My brother."

Barry's creeping closer, so there's nothing left for her to do but push at his chest with both hands, hoping to keep him at arm's length.

She always did fall in love too easily.

Barry nods, the color in his eyes muted. "How did he die?"

Her heart shoots up to her throat, caught off guard by such a bold question. Tears knit into her peripheral vision as she looks away, too naked underneath Barry's respectful gaze.

"Cancer."

"I'm sorry," comes Barry's soft reply.

"It's okay." She breathes in deeply, attempting to compose herself in the too tight space Barry has begged of her all of a sudden, while the room closes in on her from all sides. "I'm not the only one who's ever lost someone."

"Especially around here."

Her limbs weigh with a sudden sense of dread, worsening as she raises her gaze to meet Barry, who's long since ceased to be any other colleague. He stands tall and lanky, but sheds his swagger in favor of the respect their conversation demands.

"It doesn't make your pain less worthy of being felt."

Naked, she thinks, Barry's eyes strip her bare-naked and expose each wall she's grown so fond of over the course of the past three years. And he can see her like this because he's lost too, he's had someone taken from him and still carried the pain of that like she did.

Why was the entire universe conspiring against her? Why is it trying so hard to drive her towards Barry?

With a short nod, and the sweet hint of a smile, Barry leaves her be.

.

From that day on, Barry routinely checks in on her.

Most days he barges in and asks about her day, which never includes much besides work, and it's a mystery as to why he keeps bothering. His work's classified for the most part, so he has little to offer up in return, and their conversations never take up more than ten minutes. At least he's stopped asking her name.

Sometimes he's subtler; there are moments at the lab where Barry simply glances her way until she takes notice, and they share the kind of woeful smile informed by a shared type of grief. Of all the people here a double-oh is about the last person she thought she'd share anything with, but the disadvantage of loss is that few people are willing to openly talk about it—and so Barry doesn't ask either. It makes things easier.

It makes talking to him almost pleasant, both of them aware of where their grief starts and where it ends.

.

In the end, it takes her about four and a half months before she's fully settled in, at work as well as at home.

The furniture she ordered arrived one meticulously chosen item at a time, and she took her time arranging it just so to match her preferences. Cupboards filled with trinkets and glasses, and a fresh set of china along with the old cherished set that used to be her grandmother's. She searched online for some cheap yet marvelous artwork to liven up the living room, and bought a few potted plants.

One small element at a time, her apartment came to life.

Under the guise of some sort of impromptu housewarming Felicity, Cisco and Jax dropped by to help her paint the living room and the bedroom, and with Ronnie's help her Ikea bookshelves were mounted to the wall. All her books had been arranged by subject matter, each subject alphabetized—hard sciences first, romance novels last.

She hadn't yet decided on the contrast wall color for the living room, several swatches stuck to it where she could study them from the couch, and the potted red azaleas she'd lined along the kitchen window still died despite how carefully she monitored the pH value in the soil, but she'd made the place her own.

She suspects it will take more time for it to feel like home, though.

As of right now, work is more of a home than her apartment, but that's a sentiment she finds in a lot of her colleagues. Ronnie and Cisco have been known to sleep here, especially when both of their 00s were out on a mission.

Her lab had grown intimately familiar too, from the settings on her desktop, to the box of dark chocolate she kept hidden in the bottom drawer for emergencies. The glass walls faded when she focused on her work, and she stopped feeling so closely monitored- unless she counted Barry's vigilance.

Upstairs in the cafeteria, all the Qs not working through lunch sat at the same table, socialized, and even though she never divulged personal information, she's friendly with all but Martin Stein, but that's through no fault of her own.

Today she decides to grab an early lunch, so she sits alone at a small white table, reading through a lab report she'd been putting on hold. Last she saw, Cisco had made a mess of Hartley's lab, so that situation was bound to explode any moment- she wouldn't stick around for the fallout.

No ten minutes later, Barry darts in as if someone lit a fire under his feet, more than likely chased out of Q-division because of Hartley and Cisco screaming hell and brimstone at each other, if the slight panic in his eyes is anything to go by.

"Don't worry," she calls, drawing his attention. "It's safe in here."

Barry quirks an eyebrow, smiling, "Q," while playing with the clear boundaries she'd set up between them; if he doesn't push his luck again, she won't try and push him away, and so far that's worked for them. Barry has curbed the enthusiasm with which he pursued her name, and she's accepted his friendship. That's all it can ever be.

"Tea?" Barry asks.

Caitlin nods. "Green."

A few moments later Barry sits down opposite her and slides a big mug of hot water her way, teabag floating near the surface.

"Rip said something about being careful around you with tea."

She can't help but smile, recalling the briefing and the mission in question.

"I'd love to know why that makes you smile."

"Barry," she sighs, because this question goes beyond wanting to know her name- for some reason she can't fathom Barry means to know what makes her tick, and if it were any other man asking she'd be flattered. She might even consider telling him.

But she won't let a double-oh ruin her chances at the Agency, not even-

She gasps, realizing what she called him.

Her clear shock at the break in protocol must show in her eyes because Barry's slow to smile, or to react in any way.

"I mean, _agent_ ," she corrects, eyebrows shooting up, but she knows before she sees it there's no way to avoid Barry's breathtaking smile.

He winks. "You're warming up to me."

"I'm-"

Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she lays both her hands flat against the table. This is what happens when she lets her guard down; she's let Barry slip too close, gotten too familiar with everyone around here.

Maybe it was unavoidable. Over the course of her four months here she's learned a lot about the people she works with; Hartley's dislike of Cisco stems more from his unexpected fondness for the engineer; Felicity has a secret crush on her double-oh; and Laurel and Tommy were thinking about leaving the Agency to start a life together. She thinks maybe Iris will too, in due time. She told herself there'd be no attachments, but she cares about all these people a great deal.

At the end of the day, though, it still comes down to her professionalism in the face of that thick rulebook the CIA forced her to read.

"Barry, I can't do this," she says, her inabilities encompassing much more than her friendship; Barry wants something from her she can't give. "You're a double-oh."

"It's only a number."

She sighs. Yes, it's only a number, and her designation is nothing but a letter, like her name's but an amalgam of several letters in sequence. Her previously flawed logic has been steadily faltering in order to find some justification for ignoring protocol, but she's never been that person. She's not a rule breaker, and she doubts anything will ever be able to change that.

"Go out with me."

Goodness knows she wants to, she thinks as she meets Barry's eyes; she could fall into this and dive in with her eyes closed without ever looking back, with such little regard for any rule it would put her family to shame.

But what about her job? What about the opportunities she meant to take advantage of? Life here is good, as is the work she's doing.

Caitlin casts down her eyes. "I can't."

Silence follows, but it's not nearly as deafening as she thought it would be.

"Okay," comes Barry's quiet acceptance.

She looks up, surprised to find Barry's eyes soft and understanding, if not somewhat sad, but it wouldn't be fair to lie to him about this; this isn't a risk she's willing to take, not if it could mean losing her job. It's not a position she wishes to be caught in, and not one she could ever lay at someone else's feet, no matter how insistent Barry gets.

Barry raps his knuckles on the table, and stands, leaving her on her own again.

Her heart constricts—how Barry manages to appear so vulnerable when he goes out there and expertly lies to people about his identity is a mystery a part of her wants to unravel. It's like a small thread loose on an old sweater one can't help but pick at, and the entire thing coming apart at the seams.

Sometimes she worries the same thing could happen to Barry one day.

"Barry," she calls, biting at her lip, without having decided if what she's about to do is such a good idea.

But it's just a name, after all.

Barry turns.

"It's Caitlin."

Barry smiles. "It's nice to meet you, Caitlin Snow."

Her jaw drops a little. "How did you-?"

And when Barry cocks an eyebrow, right before one side of his nose scrunches up in the most adorable display of brash confidence she's ever seen, she has to bite her tongue to stop from changing her mind.

"It's sort of what I do," Barry says.

.

"How did you even get my measurements?" she snaps as her body fills the clear blue gown.

Of all the places this job might have led her, she never thought it would be a five-star hotel on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She's certain her job description had at no point included offering technical support for an agent in the field either, yet here she is, slipping into a gorgeous gown, about to accompany Barry to an art auction where a high-value target was rumored to be making an appearance.

"Felicity," Barry calls from another room.

She sighs, and pins up her hair, stepping into blue heels that probably cost more than her rent. If she'd known Barry would take liberties with this newfound camaraderie she never would've told him her name in the first place. How had he even convinced Dr Wells to sign off on this? How was she qualified to help Barry identify an international gangster?

She's not a field agent.

"Barry, I'm-" she starts, words caught at the back of her throat as she exits the bathroom and lays eyes on the man she thought she knew, transformed completely.

Caitlin's eyes travel down the length of Barry's body, the tailor-made tux slim around his waist, collar pressed and finished with a black bowtie, and all she can think of is a word she'd heard Felicity use once. _Yowza_.

She draws in a breath that doesn't quite reach her lungs. "-not the right person for this."

Nerves swirl in her stomach and flit across her skin, and she's cold all of a sudden. She thought herself safe from harm down in that Bunker, even behind her glass walls, with her protocols and rules and codenames. She shouldn't be here.

And she most definitely shouldn't be here with Barry.

"I can't do this," she says, the floor like quicksand below her feet, yet the words taste sweet in her mouth once she realizes Barry's staring—had he even heard a word she said? Is this all so normal to him that he can't see she's losing her mind? What if they get caught? What if one of them gets hurt?

"You know"—She cocks a hip— "you shouldn't stare."

"Then-" Barry huffs a laugh, eyes focused so tightly on her body she's starting to reconsider the dress—if he thinks he's allowed to objectify her at any point in any of their interactions he's gravely mistaken, "-you shouldn't look like that."

Her nerves make way for anger in a flash. "I'm not your Q, Barry."

"Cisco doesn't look this pretty in a dress."

Caitlin bristles, hands knotting into fists; Barry Allen is fast becoming the most insufferable man she's ever met. Why can't Iris do this with him? Why can't Sara or Nyssa, or Laurel, people who are trained for these kinds of situations?

"Cisco told me you knew how this worked."

Barry unearths one of the small DNA testing kits developed by Q-division from his pocket—it's no bigger than a lipstick, and can compare two DNA samples in a matter of minutes.

Her eyes narrow on Barry's face. She could've easily explained the Quick Kit's usage to Barry without ever having to take one step out of the lab. "I helped design it."

"Cisco loaded it with an old sample. All we have to do is get close enough to our target, get a fresh sample, and see if it's him."

"That's it?"

Barry nods. "That's all."

Biting at her lower lip, the floor grows no steadier beneath her feet, but at least she has some idea of what's going to happen tonight. It sounds simple enough, but she'd hazard to say Barry's well versed in how to make a complicated situation sound simple. He does this for a living. She's a fish out of water.

"You are really pushing your luck, 003."

Her unbridled anger flares up again. It's one thing for Barry to have considered any potential dangers her life might be put in tonight, another is the brazen willingness with which he does so. She thought he cared about her, so why did he request she join him? Has he not divined she has a clearly delineated comfort zone that took her a long time to find?

"Knowing my name does not give you the right to go behind my back and ask Dr Wells to send me out in the field with you."

"Caitlin," Barry tries to interject.

"Don't 'Caitlin' me." She raises a finger in warning. "I am not comfortable being used to-"

And then all of a sudden Barry's hands are on her bare shoulders, enabled by the strapless dress, and her breath hitches at the warmth that spreads through her. He's never been this close before and she's never been more angry with him, but that anger melts—he has this way with her no other man has, unless she counted her late father.

"It was a last minute call."

With a gentle touch and a soft tone of voice Barry brings her calm when there's none to be had, an extra layer of protection against this violent world of espionage she willingly set foot in.

How? And why him?

"I needed someone who could blend in with me and operate the device."

So he chose her because they passed convincingly as a couple—she tries hard not to see that as another instance of Barry objectifying her; just because she looked good in a dress that didn't make her the right person for the job. Iris wasn't available and she wouldn't wish this fear on Felicity either, but Dr Wells could've at least briefed her properly before sending her out.

Barry hands her a small microphone to put in her ear, so she can connect to the Cortex.

"Receiver's in the corsage." Barry winks, and holds out a hand for her.

Caitlin scowls. "I hate you so much right now."

But she takes his hand—she won't stray from his side for a single second. Not if she has any say in it.

Hand in hand they make their way downstairs, and there's that odd comfort at her back, a comfort entirely Barry's, shielding her from her worst fears. For some unfathomable reason, her body's chosen to trust Barry, with her life.

Downstairs, a wide open ballroom stretches about as far as her eyes can reach, rich crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, waiters in white tuxedos weaving through the bustling crowd of Manhattan's rich and famous, all the old money gathered around priceless artwork displayed in smaller offshoot rooms.

They check those first, eyes searching the crowd for one face in particular, one Hannibal Bates, a man who liked to change faces. Cisco enjoyed calling him a real life shape shifter, though there was nothing mysterious about him—he'd had several plastic surgeries to alter his appearance and had successfully evaded capture for close to five years.

Only a DNA test could conclusively confirm his identity.

That's where she and the Quick Kit came in.

Making their way through the room, her attentive eyes detect many surgical scars on too many people to count—facelift scars around the ears, botched rhinoplasties that resulted in too narrow noses, and skin shining from Botox injections. How were they supposed to find one man among a crowd of hundreds?

"Rip?" Barry speaks into his own receiver, located behind his blue pocket square.

"Nothing yet, 003," Rip replies.

There was one thing Hannibal Bates couldn't alter, and that was his body language—he could wear lifts in his shoes and shrug on bigger clothes; he could grow his hair longer and wear colored contact lenses, but few people could truly mask their gait, or change their voice and intonation. Rip was scanning for every single one of those details with the help of a sophisticated algorithm Felicity and Dr Wells built together.

"Let's dance."

Caitlin blinks. "Dance?"

This isn't the time for them to enjoy themselves.

"We'll see the room better," Barry says, and urges her onto the dance floor.

Caitlin chastises herself. Not everything in Barry's life is about getting closer to her, and she has to stop assigning blame wherever she sees fit. Barry would never have made it this far if he weren't the best at what he does and it's time she accepts that. He may flirt with her mercilessly in the Bunker, but it's clear he's focused on the job now. It's sort of marvelous to see, how Barry transforms into this poised suave spy, eyes searching for a target.

It makes her wonder if she knows him at all.

"I'm sorry this is making you so uncomfortable," Barry says as his hand slips around her waist, delicate and warm even through the silk of her dress.

She shudders slightly, shook by the warmth that spreads through her at the modest touch.

She shakes her head. "It's fine."

This isn't anything more than what it is; they're colleagues and they work for the CIA, and even though this is the kind of fancy outing every girl dreams about –right down to the handsome man accompanying her- she has to remain professional.

When exactly did that become so hard for her to do?

"Shit."

"What?"

"Rip," Barry says, "Nimbus is here."

Unconsciously, she draws closer to Barry, grabbing a hand around his arm, fingers digging into the dark fabric of his tuxedo as Barry's stress soaks into her skin as well. Nimbus? Nimbus who?

"Did he make you?" Rip asks.

Springing into action, Barry pulls her off the dance floor, and she hurries behind him faster than her heels really allow. What's happening? Who's Nimbus? Did he blow their cover?

"No," Barry answers, and glances over his shoulder to make sure he isn't selling lies, too quickly amending his answer with a, "Yes," instead.

Fear flits through her not unlike an electric shock. Against her better judgment she looks back over his shoulder, and catches sight of a bald man advancing quickly towards them, two others flanking him.

Oh God, no. What are they going to do? What's their escape plan? What if they catch up and Barry proves no match for them?

Barry drags her into the kitchen, through the hiss and sizzle of hot stoves and ovens, two dozen sous-chefs making sure the food's presentable for the guests. Her heels click loudly on the sickly beige tiles, until they stop somewhere in a small alcove, a hot furnace to her right, and a fire door leading to the hotel's main stairwell to her left.

"What's going on?" Her lungs burn, though they hadn't run that far or that fast, but fear's steadily making its way down into her vital organs. What if she doesn't make it through this? Who would miss her? Who would mourn her death? What would her mom say?

"That's a story for some other time."

Barry unearths a small handgun from behind his back.

And her heart stops beating.

"I need you to go upstairs."

 _What?_

"Caitlin"—Barry's voice beckons her closer again, her name tumbling from his lips makes her come back to the here and now, and she somehow finds his eyes in the midst of her panic—"I need you to go upstairs and clear the room. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Upstairs? Alone? She's meant to do this on her own? She's not trained for these kinds of situations; what if they find her? What then? What if they track her upstairs to the room and Barry's not there to—

" _Caitlin_."

One of Barry's hands lands on her face, thumb caressing at her cheek, and in the midst of her storm she meets Barry's impossibly calm green eyes. Set. Determined. Focused.

"I'm not leaving you."

Her eyes trip down to his lips.

"I promise."

Completely overwhelmed, she nods.

She can do this. Of course she can. She can give him her focus in return; this is protocol—fall back to safe ground, wipe for prints, clear all traces of their presence.

Yes. She can do this.

Barry opens the door to the stairwell and watches her disappear from sight. With a loud click, the fire door falls shut, and her survival instincts kick in; she takes off her heels and hurries up the stairs, up to the fourth floor, where they'd gotten changed an hour ago. How had this all gone so wrong? Why weren't they warned someone might recognize Barry and blow his cover? How did Rip miss this?

She's barely made it into the fourth floor hallway, floundering for the hotel cardkey, when the stairwell door opens behind her. Her heart leaps, hoping to find Barry as she whirls around, but she's in for a rude awakening—

One of the men accompanying Nimbus pushes into the hallway, immediately taking note of her.

Ice runs down her spine.

With her last bit of rationale she trips a few steps back and pushes at her silver corsage. "Barry, they found me," she whispers, an urgency in her voice alien to her ears, and sets off running down the hallway without another thought to spare. What does she do? Find another exit? Even if she reached the room before her assailant there's no guarantee she'll make it inside before he catches up to her—even so, wood doesn't stop bullets.

A gunshot pops her eardrums.

She freezes on the spot and feels down her body, terrified shock might've made her impervious to pain, but she doesn't appear to be injured. Then who-

Whirling around, ears ringing, she comes face to face with the man who'd been chasing her, but his eyes have gone unnaturally wide, and when he coughs, blood spurts out of his mouth, down his chin.

Three drops strain her dress.

One, her skin.

He falls, dead at her feet, in a boneless heap that can no longer be considered a man.

In the center of the hallway, Barry lowers his gun to his side.

 _He came for me_ , the stray realization blips in her mind map, short circuiting one thought at a time; there's a dead man at her feet, a man Barry shot to protect her—

"Caitlin."

—his blood is on her—

"Hey."

—she could have died had Barry not been on time—

"Can you keep a secret?"

Can she keep a secret? What—

"What?"

She finds Barry's eyes in between two stilted breaths, the question a beacon that leads her back to him, back to the here and now, back to a hallway she'd rather not be in, back to that first day in the lab when she'd turned around and was left speechless at the sight of him.

Her breathing deepens, oxygen scooping down her lungs as if carved out with a spoon—if she doesn't calm down she'll start hyperventilating and she won't be any use to anyone. Did she get a man killed?

"Hey."

Barry cups her face.

"You're okay," he whispers, before his arms wrap around her, and it's all she can do before her tears start flowing—a dam breaks, her walls come down like glass shattering from the impact of a bullet, and she winds her arms around Barry's chest. She holds on for dear life, to the only man who could possibly understand.

"You're okay." Barry strokes her hair. "They can't hurt you."

But oh, how will she ever live with this?

"Rip," she hears somewhere in the distance, numbed by a train of thought that may well prove her downfall. "Nimbus got away."

Her vision blurs.

She couldn't say exactly how they make it out of the hotel. Sounds have muted and whatever she sees doesn't remain stored in her short-term memory long enough to set in her conscious mind—there's a guiding hand at her back and there's a car at some point, hands on her face and arms around her shoulders, but nothing's clear.

Somehow they make it to the safe house, and before long she's in a small room with a small bed and Barry's drawing a wet cloth along her collarbone.

For the blood.

Her overnight bag is on the floor next to her.

There's no sound but their breathing, a faucet dripping in the adjacent bathroom, her heart like a drum that won't stop.

"You should try and get some sleep."

Numbly, she nods.

Barry kisses her forehead.

And then he's gone, giving her some privacy.

If she'd had the strength she would've grabbed her arms around him and not let go, the safety of Barry's arms shelter she craves more than anything. Why can't he stay?

Why didn't she ask him to?

In the next room, the shower starts running.

As if struck by lightning, Caitlin stands up and runs for the bathroom, checking herself in the mirror—the blood at her collarbone is gone, wiped away by Barry, but the blood on her dress remains. She rips violently at the zipper and slips out of it, kicking the dress into a desolate corner of the room. Forgotten.

Half naked, she shivers, starting the water of the shower running. She's a mess—her hair has escaped the pins she kept it down with, and she plucks them out one by one, clicking metallically as they drop into the sink; her make-up's smudged around the eyes, mascara bleeding down her cheeks. Her lipstick colors her chin red.

Stripping out of the last of her clothes she steps into the shower and scrubs at her skin with a bar of soap- her hair, her face, her collarbone- her neck and chest and stomach- and then she keels over against the cold tiles. Why had this happened? How had this happened? Why had no one warned them someone from Barry's past would be there?

Warm water runs down her back and keeps running, a lonely background symphony accompanying the tears that run silently down her face. Her heart tuneless.

It seems ages before she pulls together enough to leave the shower, to towel dry and dress in the sweats she packed in her overnight bag.

She settles in the center of the bed, and lies down, curling into a ball.

Sadly, it brings her no solace at all.

Each time she closes her eyes she's faced with that man in the hotel hallway, and he falls—

And he falls—

And he keeps falling, dead at her feet, in each iteration that replays behind her eyelids.

She understood the parameters of her job description, how her chemical compounds and biological agents have killed people like that man, have seen similar thugs cut down in their prime each time one of the agents found their target.

It's not even like she didn't know the business Barry's in, because it's the exact same one she's in, but she's never been faced with the consequences, of the dead bodies laced with her poisons, or the ones with bullets inside them the coroner will dig out later.

She can't believe she once thought herself cold or indifferent towards the deaths she'd caused.

How does anyone carry this?

And for the first time in her career, perhaps even the first time in her entire life, she doesn't think about the rules, or protocol, or who might be listening- any paranoia makes way for a singular thought. She needs comfort.

Caitlin knocks at Barry's door, shaking, waiting, part of her hoping she didn't wake him.

A few moments later, the door swings open, revealing the man she'd denied herself, she'd rejected even, and nothing in the world seems like it'll ever be fair again. She'd had a reason to push him away, a reasoned and logical argument.

Where is that reason now?

"Q."

Caitlin blinks at her tears. How dare he?

How dare he call her that now?

"Don't call me that," she hushes, and pushes forward sheepishly, rises on her toes, and steals a kiss straight from his lips. It's nothing but a brief soft press of her lips to his, nothing more than a touch for her to cherish, should Barry not reciprocate. She has no care to think about pride or promises she made these past four months—she no longer wants an inch of distance between them.

Heels lowering back to the ground, she watches Barry watch her, emerald eyes uncertain, hesitant, questioning this unfolding of events.

"Say my name," she begs, barely recognizing her own voice.

A hand touches her cheek, inviting her closer.

"Caitlin," Barry whispers.

She closes her eyes, breathing, "Yes," while her hands land on Barry's chest, over his heart, which beats at a much steadier pace than hers—he's used to this kind of violence; he must be, and what does that say about him? What does that say about the man who brings her this comfort? Does that violence reflect on her too?

"Caitlin," he repeats, and kisses her jaw, her cheeks, her nose and both her eyes, an ebb and flow to their exchange that's building up to something else. She means to drown in him and never come up for air, scream until her voice is gone, look at him until she goes blind.

Green eyes find hers.

"Caitlin."

She nods, voice lost already, and sighs relief when Barry brings his lips down to meets hers. What started as a cry for comfort, as nothing more than an affirming touch quickly deepens—her arms reach up around Barry's neck and her lips part, falling into Barry the way she's fantasized, the way she's daydreamed, the way it seems she was always meant to.

Gone is any sense of propriety and protocol. She stops denying the visceral attraction that's lived between them since the day she laid eyes on him, and surrenders.

Their kiss deepens and Barry edges them backwards so the door can close, and soon she finds herself pushed up against it, pinned between the unwavering wood and Barry's warm body, fitted to hers like it was meant to do that, and only that, since its inception.

Impatiently Caitlin tugs off Barry's shirt, a bland gray thing far more interesting on the floor, and she foregoes any further pleasantries—she undoes the string of his sweats and reaches a hand inside, stroking him slowly.

Barry shivers beneath her touch.

His warm hands underneath her shirt, massaging at her breasts and suddenly she wants him everywhere, poured over her like latex paint so her skin can't even breathe—they kiss out of desperation, starved of each other as Barry slips a hand between her legs to stroke her too, catching a cry at the back of her throat.

She's on fire for Barry's body, and quite consciously she pushes her sweats down her thighs, wriggling until they pool around her feet and she can step out of them. Next thing all she knows are Barry's hands on her thighs and her legs lifting off the ground—she winds around him like a vine, her limbs tendrils spiraling out of control.

Her hands are in his hair, and when he pushes inside, when Barry lays the foundations for the release she came here to find, there's no more rhyme or reason to it, no more up or down, there are only their two bodies intertwining.

It's fast and hard and it's dirty, it's desperate and imperfect, her thighs clenching while Barry kisses down her neck, Barry digging bruises into her thighs, and her back scraping against the door painfully, but her release comes just as hard—she cries and tightens around Barry further, shuddering as Barry stills inside her.

"Barry," she breathes, holding on for dear life.

He responds in kind with a husky, "Caitlin," breathed against her collarbone.

Kissing his shoulder she has no intention of letting go, maybe not ever again. She could stay here, like this, forever, couldn't she? Who would stop her? Who would wrangle her from his arm? In what world would he let anyone take her?

Hands slipping from her thighs to her waist, Barry helps her out of her shirt, before taking her into his arms and walking over to the bed.

There, he lays her down against the sheets, and when she's finally truly naked beneath him, he covers up her nudity with his own, no longer stripped by his eyes but clothed, protected, sheltered from the storm started hours ago.

He hovers over her and breathes hard, strength in his eyes she hadn't noticed before, but it had to have been there all along. How can anyone do this job and not possess an inhuman amount of strength?

She cups his face between both hands and pulls him down, trading short kisses for whatever Barry's willing to offer. Part of her fears she used him for her own gain, that she doesn't deserve this at all, but part of her believes Barry's been ready to give her this for a long time, because he cares, because he wants her. Because he loves her.

Lips trip down her neck, and Barry worships every part of her body- he kisses the fear along her collarbone, the anxious beating of her heart- he licks and sucks and chases away her apprehension, her strict adherence to the rules, her need for structure and organization.

She feels small under his touch and watchful eyes, vulnerable, but comforted knowing Barry would do anything in his power to keep her safe.

Barry makes love to her, this time, and knits her name into her skin over and over again.

Afterwards, they lie side by side underneath the sheets, facing each other. She still means to drown in him, from this day forward for as long as she can have him. Her resolve has gone, her excuses have been listed—she has wanted this for a long time, and should it matter how they got here? No one has to know. They can keep it a secret.

She wouldn't have done this with anyone else.

"Caitlin."

She touches a hand to Barry's face, bathed in darkness, giving him the haunting appearance of someone older, someone wiser, someone who has –unsurprising- come to mean something real to her.

"Barry," she whispers.

"You okay?"

Barry's fingers are a delicate caress down her shoulder.

She stares at him for a long time, her fingertips drawing circles in his hair, her toes stroking against his calves. For the longest time she worried about being perceived as cold or uncaring, too prim and proper, maybe because –in part- that's what she believed herself to be. How wrong she was.

Eventually, she draws in a deep breath, and says, "I will be."

Their lips come together in another kiss, Barry's hand in her hair, skipping whimsically down her back. Life has never felt more stable, or safer, than right here in his arms.

She will be.

.

.

 **now**

.

Far too soon, a common occurrence for them, their time together is up—Barry has to leave on his mission, and she has to brief Iris an hour from now; she still has to pack the neurotoxins and antidotes Iris needs for her intricate abduction scheme.

Barry stands up and buttons his jacket, grabbing his belongings.

He doesn't kiss her goodbye. He's not allowed.

Looking up at him she wonders, not for the first time, how long they'll be able to keep this going. Barry gone on a mission, she back at the lab ignoring Jay's advances, both of them under the scrutiny of the agency they work for. How long before her heart gets broken?

Because she loves this man, heart and soul, but for all the strength he has she's often wondered if he'd give up his career for her. For now that's not in question; she's not done exploring all the cutting-edge science at her disposal, and she hasn't given up on finding a cure for cancer.

But one day she'll want more.

"Can you keep a secret?" Barry asks.

Her heart warms around the familiar phrase.

Caitlin smiles. "You know I can."

And like that, like a leaf on the wind, Barry leaves her side, whisked off by his sense of duty, his thirst for excitement, and the knowledge that she'll be here waiting for him, always.

It's no secret at all that his 'Can you keep a secret?' and her automatic 'You know I can' was the kiss they're not allowed right now, the stolen glances at work and the fear that disappears whenever they find their way into each other's arms again; they've both been at this long enough to know that this particular cue-and-response really meant 'I love you' and 'I love you too.'

.

.

 **fin**

.


End file.
